


mercury dreams

by blackkat



Series: Nine Bright Shiners [1]
Category: Bleach, Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Development, Crossover, Duty, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 10:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14714693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Kazeshini hums with eagerness, and Shūhei shakes his head. He’s always preferred to hold back from a fight, but—At his throat, Belgaer chimes, and he smiles bitterly.Clearly, that served him so well in the past.





	mercury dreams

“You don’t ever use your choker,” Izuru says to him in the aftermath, when all the details about his fight with Ayasegawa come out. They're sitting outside the captains’ meeting hall, neither of them entirely sure why they're actually there when they have no captain to follow, but some part of Shūhei that still feels like a cat at least enjoys the sun.

Shūhei brushes his fingers away before he can touch the loop of leather, though he smiles as he does it, makes it a joke as he scoffs. “I wasn’t going to kill another Shinigami,” he says.

“If anyone is asking for it, it’s Yumichika,” Izuru says dryly, and Shūhei laughs, but Izuru's eyes are still on him—on his neck, specifically. When Shūhei arches a brow at him, he startles, flushes. “Sorry, I just—I thought I saw something silver.”

Treacherous, crafty Belgaer, always eager to be heard, Shūhei thinks, though he doesn’t let himself react, doesn’t reach up to touch the miniature bell hanging hidden and silenced on his collar. “A trick of the light?” he proposes instead, and Izuru gives him a faintly sheepish smile.

“I probably haven’t gotten enough sleep,” he admits, but before he can add anything else the doors of the meeting hall creak open. Instantly, Izuru rises to his feet, head dipping, and Shūhei follows him up, bowing as the first wave of captains passes. There are a few glances, a murmured greeting from Ukitake, but nothing more.

And then, in their wake, footsteps, light and graceful and saturated with Free Magic.

“Go on ahead, Isane,” Unohana says, low and gentle. “Lieutenant Hisagi, may I speak with you?”

Shūhei hides a grimace behind another bow, then straightens. Izuru is looking at him with something like alarm, and Unohana is smiling, hands clasped in front of her. “Of course, Captain,” he says politely.

“Shūhei?” Izuru asks worriedly. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Unohana tells Izuru, quick to reassure. “I simply would like to ask a favor of a lieutenant with Hisagi’s particular skillset.”

Whatever favor she wants likely has less to do with Shūhei’s ranking when he graduated the Academy and far more to do with the bell hanging at his throat, but Shūhei doesn’t object. Can't, when Unohana outranks him in more way than one, and it’s a dynamic Shūhei has had far too much experience with over the millennia.

That smile doesn’t waver, though Shūhei knows he can't control his expression nearly as well as he would like in this form. Unohana just steps away expectantly, and Shūhei follows, casting a glance over his shoulder. “Sorry, Kira. Later?”

“Drinks.” Izuru's smile is wan. “I think we deserve them, after the last few days.”

Shūhei can hardly argue with that, so he smiles, then quickens his steps, falling in beside Unohana as she makes for the garden attached to the First Division’s headquarters. A pass of her hand lets them through the gate, and Shūhei closes it behind them, then joins her on the path.

“It’s reassuring to see you forging connections,” Unohana says into thee green silence of the garden. She doesn’t look at him, but keeps her eyes focused ahead as she says, “He has the look of the Clayr.”

“He isn't,” Shūhei says, even though it was his first thought as well, when he met Izuru.

“Even Mosrael’s blood would wear thin after so many millennia,” Unohana reminds him. “A lack of ability does not signify a lack of the blood. You of all people should know that, Mogget.”

The sound of the long-denied name puts up the hair on the back of Shūhei’s neck, makes him bristle even as he tries to contain it. “Are we resurrecting faded names now, _Chlorr_?” he bites out, coming to a sharp halt in the middle of the path.

There isn't so much as a flicker in Unohana’s expression as she turns to face him. “If we were, I would be using a far older name,” she says, perfectly even, smile unwavering. “ _Yrael_.”

If _Mogget_ makes Shūhei’s skin prickle, _that_ name is a cascade of old power, sharp and biting and almost enough to buckle his knees. He takes another step back, but Unohana follows, and when she reaches out he doesn’t try to jerk away. Her fingers brush the miniature bell the rests against the hollow of his throat, and Belgaer chimes, Charter Marks flaring across both the metal and the collar. Shūhei winces, though more from instinct than any immediate sensation, and breathes through the flicker of power that brings memories sliding forward on the sound of the bell. Too clear, too much, and memories fade with time for a reason, but Mogget has never had that luxury.

At the very least he isn't the only one effected; Unohana closes her eyes, and just for a moment Mogget— _Shūhei_ can see the Charter Mark on her forehead burn to life, bright and pure. There's Free Magic in her, but—this is Clariel, not Chlorr. A sorcerer and a necromancer, but of the royal family and the Abhorsen’s line.

“Old names indeed,” Unohana says, opening her eyes, and this time her smile is sad and touched with regret. She steps back, giving Shūhei space, and folds her hands in front of her again. “They are becoming more relevant, these days. Free Magic is returning, and the Seven Bright Shiners with it.”

“Not that it will do the world much good,” Shūhei says evenly, and consciously lets his hand fall away from Kazeshini’s hilt. “Orannis rose again, and they failed to do anything at all, right up until the world was lost.”

“Hardly lost,” Unohana counters, “or you and I wouldn’t be here, Shūhei.”

“Astarael cast the entirety of the Old Kingdom past the Ninth Gate in an attempt to kill the Destroyer,” Shūhei says dryly. “I think that counts as lost.”

“It worked.” Unohana looks unruffled. “By then there were none of the royal bloodline left, and no Wallmakers. The Abhorsen was lost, and the Clayr couldn’t stand alone against Orannis.”

Shūhei keeps his mouth shut, though he wants to say that if the Seven had intervened beforehand the bloodlines holding their power wouldn’t have been lost. Just breathes out through his nose, and asks, “I assume there was something you wanted?”

“I see time hasn’t taught you patience,” Unohana says, amused. “Though it also hasn’t taught you bravery, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Losing a fight to a mortal child who denies his own nature—truly a new low.”

Shūhei rolls his eyes. “It’s not like he was actually a traitor,” he says, and it’s possible that it’s a little grumpy. “Why bother with more?”

Unohana chuckles lightly. “Are you still so determined to find whether the lost lieutenant is Saraneth’s get?” she asks. “Surely there are simpler ways.”

 _That_ puts Shūhei’s back up in a way even his old names couldn’t. He turns away, chin coming up, and ignores the sound of Belgaer’s chime even as it brings a long-lost face sharply into mind. “I'm bound to serve the Abhorsen—” he starts.

“But you aren’t seeking the Abhorsen,” Unohana says gently. “You seek the Wallmaker. You seek Sameth’s blood.”

Shūhei doesn’t answer. He can't, and beyond that, he won't give her the satisfaction.

Unohana smiles like she knows she’s won, and then says, “The Shiba family certainly has all the hallmarks of Wallmaker blood.”

“I don’t need _you_ to tell me that,” Shūhei mutters, but he sighs, curls his fingers around Kazeshini’s hilt. The traces of Kerrigor’s power that linger in his being shiver eagerly, wanting to wake, but Shūhei suppresses them with the ease of long practice. He doesn’t have time to deal with the darkest parts of his magic right now.

Unohana laughs, low and sweet, like Dyrim in the far distance, and with the same ability to make Shūhei mute. “Your prince would approve.”

Sam was hardly Mogget's, even at the very end. Too mortal for that, he thinks. All he says, though, is, “Did you have something for me to do, Mistress?”

Because she’s been Unohana for nearly as along as she was Chlorr, she doesn’t mention the slip, or maybe accepts it as her due—she’s the only remnant of the Abhorsen’s bloodline that Shūhei has found on this side of the Ninth Gate, after all, and for all that Sabriel gave him the freedom of choice, that still makes her the closest he has to a master. “I did indeed. I need a message carried to Ushōda Hachigen, as quickly as you can manage it. Urahara Kisuke will know where to find him.”

“Right. Find the exiled lieutenant, pass him a message from a current captain. That will go over well.” But Shūhei still holds out his hand, accepts the envelope Unohana offers him, and bows. “Anything else, Captain?”

“No, thank you, Lieutenant,” Unohana says graciously, slipping her hands into her sleeves.

Before she can turn to leave, Shūhei takes a step forward, opening his mouth. It’s almost a surprise to realize what words are on the tip of his tongue, but…maybe it shouldn’t be. The instinct of millennia, after all.

“You know,” he says, “if you took this collar off me Aizen wouldn’t be a problem any longer.”

Unohana smiles. “No,” she says simply. “I think not.”

Well. Shūhei supposes it was worth a try. She’ll change her mind eventually. They always do. Mogget— _Shūhei_ is at his most useful when he’s free, no matter how temporarily.

There's a pause as Unohana looks him over, and then she murmurs, “With the return of Free Magic, with the Charter rising again, the Dead are going to wake eventually. I hope you're prepared, Yrael.”

“I've chosen my path,” Shūhei tells her, ignoring the prickling rush of that name across his bones.

“Ah, but does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?” Unohana asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer, but glides past Shūhei and out of the garden with a ripple of her white haori.

Shūhei closes his eyes, breathing out through his nose. Ridiculous of her to quote _The Book of the Dead_ at him, after he’s spent so much of his existence serving the Abhorsen. Ridiculous of her to ask whether he’s prepared, when he’s never been anything else. He ran from the fight against Orannis once, but—it’s been so very long since then. An age of the world turned over and started anew, and Shūhei fought with Sabriel and Lirael when the Destroyer sought freedom, stood with the last Abhorsen when Orannis tried to rise again. He didn’t hide himself away even when Astarael dragged herself out of her deep well and sang a whole kingdom past the Ninth Gate and deep into the realm of death on the other side.

They ended up here, in a world unlike their own. No Charter, no Free Magic, no one with any memories to speak of. Shūhei’s filtered back, over the years, as he slid from one form to another and wandered the Seireitei. Unohana’s as well, eventually. Shūhei supposes it has something to do with Free Magic—reforging the Charter requires all seven of the Shiners to remember themselves, and rebuild the boundaries they laid on magic to begin with. Yrael is— _was_ a being of pure Free Magic, though; his only connection to the Charter is the collar that binds him. Chlorr steeped herself in Free Magic as well, used it to live for centuries and grow in power until she was an unearthly thing. It’s no wonder the two of them remember, and few others seem to.

Reaching up, Shūhei touches his choker, feeling the flare of Charter Marks as they slide beneath his fingers. Inlaid ones remain, like the one pressed into Unohana’s soul and this one, a binding that’s far more than simply physical. A few marked items likely made the crossing in the wake of Astarael’s song as well, like the Abhorsen’s sword and a few of the Wallmakers’ relics, but Shūhei has only been able to find a handful of small toys and an old sending or two, no matter how much of the Seireitei he’s scoured.

Taken as a whole, it means Unohana is likely right about the Dead rising. The people of the Old Kingdom ended up in Soul Society, rather than the World of the Living, being as they were dead, but the realms are connected; what happens in one bleeds over to the other, and the return of Free Magic here will be no exception. Soon the strongest of the Dead will start to pass through the Gates, whisper their tricks into the ears of those susceptible. Necromancers will take up the bells again, and this time there won't be an Abhorsen to put them down. Unohana can't, with her previously corrupted Charter Mark and the temptation of so much power, and Shūhei has yet to find any members of Saraneth’s bloodline among the souls here.

With a grimace, Shūhei shakes himself, turns. It would be simple enough to got to Akon at the Twelfth, ask for a Senkaimon to the World of the Living, but given who Unohana sent him to find, he assumes she doesn’t want a record of this mission. Thankfully, there's an alternative way, and it’s even simpler than opening a Senkaimon.

Cold bleeds into the air as Shūhei reaches, Free Magic curling around his fingers. Frost creeps out from beneath his feet, mists his breath and forms on his hair, and he _steps_ —

Water. Warm and ankle-deep, without a current to speak of. Shūhei blinks frost off his lashes and glances up, taking in the expanse of stars above. The Ninth Gate has no draw now that he’s been on the other side of it, in Soul Society, but it’s lovely, immense and overwhelming.

Taking a breath, Shūhei drops his eyes and turns towards the distant heat of the portal into Life, distant but clear. The wall of darkness that is the Eighth Gate looms, and Shūhei calls up the Free Magic spell that will let him cross it, feeling the numbness of the words across his tongue. Easy, so easy for a creature of that same magic to pass back into Life.

There are Dead stirring in the waters of the Eighth Precinct when Shūhei steps out of the choking darkness, his eyes already seeking the line of red fire that marks the Seventh Gate. He places a hand on his sword, easing it free of its sheath, and doesn’t fight the wave of power that comes with Kazeshini’s awakening. The spirit within laughs gleefully, and green reiatsu flickers around the blade as patches of oily water in front of Shūhei erupt into gouts of flame.

“Soon,” Shūhei tells his sword grimly. The Eighth Precinct doesn’t have many Dead—they can't survive the flares any more than a passing necromancer—but the Seventh and onward are rife with them. Most souls pass peacefully beyond the Ninth Gate, but Shūhei is certain that souls who have spent time as Hollows, who have _enjoyed_ it, are more than stubborn enough to linger, hoping to find a path back. And someday soon, they're going to.

Kazeshini hums with eagerness, and Shūhei shakes his head. He’s always preferred to hold back from a fight, but—

At his throat, Belgaer chimes, and he smiles bitterly.

Clearly, that served him so well in the past.

He doesn’t think of the name still ringing in his ears. Doesn’t think of Yrael, Eighth of the Nine Bright Shiners. Doesn’t let himself think of Mogget, servant of the Abhorsen. He’s Hisagi Shūhei now, lieutenant of the Ninth Division. He has a traitorous captain to find, a coming war to survive, a message to deliver.

 _Two wars coming_ , something whispers, old and bright-metal-hot like Free Magic. Shūhei ignores it, calling up the numbing cold of his spell. The Seventh Gate is waiting.

 

 

Karakura is the jūreichi, and Shūhei can tell that the moment he steps out into the town. The air hums with power the same way the Charter Stones once did, heavy in the sunlight and thick on his tongue. He breathes it in, turning his face up to the morning sky, and smiles a little. It’s been a while since he was in the World of the Living, and while he’ll always be a little wary after hat disastrous mission with Renji, Izuru, and Momo, here in the sunshine it’s easy enough to set it aside.

He doesn’t touch his scars—it’s a bad habit, and he dislikes dwelling on the fact that this body _can_ be scarred—and ignores the flicker at the edge of his senses that means a low-level Hollow is nearby. Karakura has a Shinigami assigned to it now, and Kurosaki Ichigo lives here; there’s no need to linger when he’s present for a reason. Instead, he leaps, letting a flicker of flash-step carry him across the street and over the buildings, following the sense of strong reiatsu close by. Not Kurosaki's—Shūhei got a good feel for his when the boy was in Soul Society. This is something older, subtler. If Shūhei wasn’t a good bit older than he pretends to be, and a lot more experienced, he might miss it completely.

And, indeed, there’s a familiar face in front of the shop when Shūhei drops into the yard, carefully keeping his hands in sight. “Captain Tsukabishi,” he says politely, even as the big man takes a sharp step back.

“Well, well. You're a bold one, aren’t you?” A cane taps the wood of the porch, and Urahara steps forward, sweeping a gaze over Shūhei from beneath the brim of his hat. His eyes linger on the division insignia tied around Shūhei’s bicep, and the air cools as if Shūhei just stepped into Death. Tsukabishi tenses, hands rising as if he’s about to cast a kidō.

Shūhei has always hated posturing, even this sort of defensive posturing. He gives Tsukabishi a flat look, then deliberately turns his attention back to Urahara and bows. “Captain Urahara. I'm sorry for the intrusion, but Captain Unohana Retsu sent me with an urgent message, and I was hoping you could help me find the recipient.”

“Unohana?” There's surprise in the arch of Urahara’s brows. “I didn’t think she was running the Ninth now.”

“She’s not,” Shūhei says flatly. “But she’s my superior officer and she made a request of me.”

Urahara laughs, light and airy and designed to infuriate as he flutters his fan in front of his face. “My my! You're so defensive. I was just asking a question.” When Shūhei refuses to respond to that, he pouts, but stills the fan and asks, “Who is it you're looking for, Lieutenant? Kurosaki should be here in a few minutes, if he’s the one.”

“Finding him wouldn’t exactly be a chore,” Shūhei says dryly, because Kurosaki's presence may as well be a waterfall of reiatsu, swift and fierce and endless. Shūhei could likely find him with his eyes closed, half-dead of blood loss and with a concussion to boot.

This time Urahara’s laugh is more genuine, and he leans against one of the porch’s posts, bracing his shoulder and asking, “Not him, then? Fair enough. Who is the lovely Unohana Retsu’s victim today, if it isn't Kurosaki?”

At least no one else is fooled by Unohana’s peaceable smile, Shūhei thinks. Maybe they don’t know the monster that was Clariel the way Shūhei does, but they see the edges of it. a beautiful, useful monster, repentant and reformed, but a monster all the same. Then again, Shūhei supposes that could be said of any of the Abhorsen’s get.

“Ushōda Hachigen,” he answers evenly, and because he’s looking for it he sees the shock that flickers over Tsukabishi’s face at the mention of his former lieutenant.

“That’s a strange person to be looking for,” Tsukabishi says evenly.

“I have a letter for him,” Shūhei returns, and there's no way he can convince them he doesn’t mean any harm, but hopefully they’ll come to that conclusion on their own.

Tsukabishi looks at Urahara, and Urahara looks back. “Did Unohana say anything else?” Urahara asks mildly, though the way he’s looking at Shūhei is closer to sizing him up for a coffin, or maybe a kidō binding.

Shūhei raises a brow at him. “I don’t tend to question captains.”

Urahara hums lightly. “I'm sure that’s worked very well for you so far,” he says lightly, with a pointed glance at the Ninth Division’s white poppy on Shūhei’s armband.

In Shūhei’s head, Kazeshini snarls, head coming up. _Shūhei, this bastard_ —, he starts.

Shūhei takes a breath, lets it out. Curls one hand around the hilt of his sword, soothing the zanpakutō spirit, and meets Urahara’s narrowed eyes squarely. “Tousen Kaname will be brought back to the Seireitei to face justice for what he’s done,” he says, and it’s not quite as steady as he would like it to be, but it’s acceptable. The betrayal still stings, just as the rest of the Nine’s did so long ago. Orannis was a friend, and Tousen was a friend, and now there's a dark seed of something like hate burning in Shūhei’s chest for both of them.

With a sound that could be skepticism or agreement, Urahara looks away, glancing over at Tsukabishi for a long moment. “Well,” he murmurs. “Things are progressing rather faster than I thought.”

Some thread of memory, some flicker Sam’s face, so close to the surface after Belgaer’s chimes, prompts Shūhei to offer, “Captain Unohana is the only one in Soul Society who knows of my presence, and I have no plans to change that.”

“You're an amusing one, aren’t you, Lieutenant?” Urahara asks, amused. He tips his hat back a little, then inclines his head. “Very well. There's a warehouse on the outskirts of town, six degrees north of here. It’s protected by a barrier, but I assume you can convince the inhabitants to allow you in.”

Inhabitants, as in the plural—likely the rest of the exiled captains and lieutenants, Shūhei thinks, even as he bows to Urahara. “Thank you, sir.”

“Sir!” Urahara says cheerfully. “Tessai, he called me _sir_ , did you hear that?”

“Some people can be sadly misguided,” Tsukabishi rumbles, and Shūhei hides a smile and turns away, leaving Urahara’s offended cries behind him. The streets around the shop aren’t precisely crowded, but he still gets a foot in a corner of brickwork, kicks off and leaps up with a touch of reiatsu to carry him until he can land on the roof of the closest building across the street. Partly it’s a cat-instinct that’s carried over, the desire to be up high, but—

From here, he can feel the spread of Free Magic as well, the flickers of molten metal-scent that mark its presence. Can breathe it in, careful and assessing, to see if it’s as far along here as in Soul Society. It feels like it is, though Free Magic is a thing of Death and its seep is slower here in Life, a spring bubbling outward rather than a river breaking its banks.

Something like excitement curls down Shūhei’s spine, no matter how much he tries to contain it. Free Magic is _his_ domain, his blood and body and essence. The Seven chose to constrain it, to bind it into the Charter with a form and a purpose, but despite his centuries in service to Charter mages Shūhei has never appreciated the neat boundaries of the Charter the way the Seven would have hoped. Free Magic is wild and unpredictable and touched with Death, a sword that cuts both ways, and Shūhei _is_ Free Magic in every way that matters.

The Seven will return eventually, once the Free Magic grows strong enough. They were once the same as Shūhei, after all, until they forged the Charter with their very beings. But until they do—

This is freedom in every way that counts. This is Shūhei living without a true master but with power of his own for the first time in a very long while. Unohana is the only remaining creature from the Old Kingdom who remembers herself, and while she might be a constraint, she too is a thing of Free Magic, and Shūhei knows she feels the same.

Reiatsu slides across Shūhei’s skin, heavy and hard, and he comes to a stop, dropping into a crouch on the edge of a rooftop and looking out. There's a large gap between buildings, an empty lot, and then a warehouse, large and looming. It’s tightly shuttered, and if not for the subtle hum of power around it Shūhei might have passed over it entirely. Bakudō, he surmises, and his eyes want to slide off of the building, keep going, which means it’s a powerful one. Fitting, given that Ushōda Hachigen was second in command of the Kidō Corps.

There's no sign of the occupants, no stirring. Shūhei is far enough from the barrier that they likely haven’t sensed him yet, and he doesn’t particularly want to face down a whole host of high-level Shinigami exiles known to have Hollow powers. Better to slip in, maybe catch them off guard.

Besides, Shūhei has always enjoyed making a dramatic entrance.

He reaches out, touches Kazeshini and feels the huff of amusement as the sword agrees, then falls forward onto all fours. In the same instant, the Free Magic that gives him form _shifts_ , changes, and he hits the ground far below as a small white cat. Shūhei shakes himself, taking stock, and on his red leather collar Belgaer chimes softly, the power of it ignorable in the face of his goal.

The warehouse is absolutely massive from this angle, but it’s also less impenetrable; he can already see a small gap between the sheets of metal that form the siding. Far too small for a human, but for a cat it’s no problem at all. Shūhei squeezes through, emerging in the shadows behind a pile of neatly stacked crates, and then sits down, eyeing the inhabitants. Sleeping or reading or eating breakfast, most of them, but—

Muguruma Kensei is sitting at the table, magazine open on one bent knee, idly stuffing cereal in his mouth as he reads. He looks different than when Shūhei last saw him, the night before he disappeared, but still very much the same. Shūhei wasn’t quite the child he looked, then, had simply shifted form to keep looking for any of the Wallmakers’ or Abhorsen’s bloodline, but Kensei hadn’t known that. Kensei had saved him from a hollow, and back then, a hundred years before Free Magic started to rise, it really was saving. His gruff kindness was—well. A reminder, maybe, that there was a reason Shūhei spent so long looking for the remnants of the Old Kingdom, and it wasn’t simply duty.

Shūhei’s tail twitches, but he controls it, keeps looking. Hirako Shinji, half-asleep in his toast; Yadomaru Lisa, reading a manga on the couch; Ōtoribashi Rōjūrō, with his head in her lap and his eyes closed. And, in the far corner, Ushōda Hachigen, reading a book and drinking a cup of tea.

Well. Shūhei isn't going to have a better moment to step in; they’re all relaxed, at ease, and not likely to take his head off instantly, the way they might if he came up to the barrier and knocked. Taking a breath, he changes shape again, rising to his full height and catching himself with one hand on the crates as his vision shifts. A moment to steady himself, and then he steps forward into the light, a Bakudō barrier on the tip of his tongue just in case.

“Ushōda Hachigen?” he asks, and there's a collective jerk from the exiles. Shinji falls out of his chair even as he draws his sword, and Lisa finds her feet in a blur, zanpakutō drawn and ready as Ōtoribashi yelps. Kensei launches himself forward like he’s going to intercept an attack, trench knife in hand, but Shūhei leaps up, landing lightly on top of the crates to get himself out of the path, and then stops, raising a hand.

“I just have a message,” he says evenly, shifting back on his heels. “Urahara Kisuke told me where to find you.”

There's a moment of wary silence before Shinji huffs. “That brat did, huh?” he asks, but he picks himself up and slides his sword away, eyeing Shūhei suspiciously. “You, you're—”

“Ninth Division Lieutenant Hisagi Shūhei,” Shūhei offers politely, ignoring the way Kensei stiffens. When no one else seems to be about to grab for him, he jumps down, landing lightly on the floor and bowing to the former captains and lieutenants. “Captain Unohana sent me with a letter for Lieutenant Ushōda.”

“For me?” Hachigen sounds startled, but he gets up and approaches, apparently convinced of the fact that Shūhei doesn’t intend them any harm.

“Not a lieutenant anymore,” Shinji mutters, but he doesn’t try to stop the other man, just watches.

“Bullshit,” Kensei says, short and sharp. He isn't putting his knife away. “Soul Society shouldn’t have exiled us for what that _fucking bastard_ did to us. It’s invalid.”

Shūhei isn't entirely certain whether he means Urahara or Aizen, and doesn’t particularly care to know. He glances over at the man who saved him, trying not to stare, but Kensei catches his gaze with a scowl that makes Shūhei drop his eyes. He occupies himself with pulling the letter out of his obi instead, and offers it to Hachigen with another bow. “Sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Hisagi,” Hachigen says gently. “I appreciate you going to the trouble.”

“Don’t say that until you know what’s in the letter,” is Lisa’s verdict, but she folders her arms over her chest, sword dangling from her fingertips, and seems content just to see things play out.

Without hesitating, Hachigen slits the top of the envelope and pulls out the neatly folded piece of paper. Shūhei steps back to give him room, feels eyes on him but doesn’t look over to see Kensei staring at the numbers tattooed on his cheek. A reminder to Shūhei himself, more than it’s a reminder _of_ Kensei, but there's no good way to explain that.

“Oh,” Hachigen says, in a very peculiar voice, and when Shūhei blinks and glances up at him, he’s staring at the letter with a conflicted expression on his face.

“Hachi?” Shinji asks, pushing his way forward to halt by the big man’s shoulder. “What’s she want?”

“A personal favor,” Hachigen says, still in that strange tone of voice. He looks Shūhei over with a strange intensity, then nods to himself and steps back. “This way, please, Lieutenant,” he says, and gestures Shūhei towards a narrow hallway off the main room.

“Hachi—” Kensei warns, taking a step after them.

Hachigen waves a hand. “I'm fine, Kensei,” he says. “It really is a personal favor. I hadn’t realized Captain Unohana even remembered.”

Apprehension prickles across Shūhei’s spine like sharp little feet, and it takes effort not to retreat back into the shadows. A personal favor from Unohana? _For_ Unohana? He really, really doesn’t like the sound of this, and given the way Kazeshini is stirring restlessly, his sword feels the same.

“Then you won't care if I wait out in the hall,” Kensei says stubbornly, flips Tachikaze around his fingers, and slips it into the sheath on his belt.

Shūhei bites back the sharp retort that’s on the tip of his tongue, closes his teeth on the next biting comment, and finally just turns to follow Hachigen. If Kensei doesn’t remember saving him, that’s fine. Shūhei isn’t the type to need to be rescued anymore.

Hachigen just shakes his head, but he doesn’t protest either, just leads Shūhei into a small bedroom and very firmly closes the door behind them.

“I'm sorry for the trouble,” Shūhei says, because it seems like he should.

“No trouble at all, Lieutenant,” Hachigen assures him. He moves easily in the small space, stepping around the rolled futon and opening a chest that sits against the wall.

Instantly, the feeling of Charter magic slams into Shūhei, drives him back three quick steps until he slams into the door. Hachigen looks up in alarm, but Shūhei can't spare him even a fraction of his attention, because there's a leather bandolier in his hands, worn but well cared for. Seven handles are visible, not the usual ebony or bone, but mahogany. Even without that, though, Shūhei would know that these aren’t a basic necromancer’s bells. They're the Abhorsen’s, tied into the Charter just as much as they are Free Magic, heavy with power and intent. Shūhei has to breathe through the tightness in his chest, the lump in his throat, and—it’s difficult.

Of all the things he expected to find in this world, so far from the Old Kingdom, those bells are the very last.

“Lieutenant?” Hachigen asks, concerned and takes a step forward.

Shūhei has to steel himself to keep from actually attempting to merge his body with the door behind him. He throws his hands up, snaps, “Stop!” a little more loudly than he means to, and—

The door opens with a sharp jerk, and Shūhei yelps, overbalancing backwards. There's an answering startled sound, and then strong arms catch him, holding him up.

“What the hell is going on here?” Kensei asks, sounding annoyed.

“I'm afraid I'm not sure,” Hachigen says slowly. He doesn’t attempt to come closer, but frowns down at the bandolier in his hands and then glances up at Shūhei in consternation. “Captain Unohana said she sent you to retrieve these, which she left in my care almost three centuries ago. Is there something wrong with them?”

Of course. Of _course_ that witch would do something like this. Shūhei wants to hiss like a cat, but he doesn’t let himself. Claws upright instead, pulling himself out of Kensei's grip, and takes a wary step closer, trying to adjust to the feel of that many powerful Charter Marks when for _centuries_ he’s only felt scattered patches of them here and there. “No,” he says, hoarse and a little rough, but he forces himself to reach out, take the bandolier with both hands. “They're fine. I just—didn’t expect you to have _these_.”

“Captain Unohana never told me what they were,” Hachigen says curiously, though it’s polite enough to ignore if Shūhei wants to.

Carefully, Shūhei unstraps the smallest bell, lifting it gently enough that the clapper doesn’t even swing. Ranna gleams in the light, shimmering silver with a flow of golden Charter Marks across its surface. Not Clariel’s bells, Shūhei thinks. Hers weren’t touched by Charter magic. Sabriel’s, and the thought twists in his chest a little. Saraneth is newer than all the rest, reforged after the first one shattered against Kerrigor. Its handle shows wear, because generations of the Abhorsen used these bells after Sabriel, but not as much. Shūhei can almost feel the imprint of her hand on the wood, light but sure.

Can almost feel the imprint of Sam’s hand on Belgaer’s handle, close at hand with the memory of binding Orannis again.

He touches the tip of his finger to Ranna, watches the Charter Marks shift and flow, and then returns it to its case, strapping it in tightly so that it can't ring. “Thank you,” he tells Hachigen, and isn't entirely sure whether he means it.

From the expression Hachigen is wearing, he can tell, but he still smiles. “I'm sure Captain Unohana wanted you to have them for a reason,” he says gently.

Shūhei is sure she did, the witch. He doesn’t snarl the way he wants to, though, just inclines his head and turns, slipping out of the room without pausing. Kensei starts to say something as he passes, but Shūhei is back in the main room before he can hear it, something like fury or maybe fear driving his feet quicker and quicker until he hits the main door at a run. Then he’s out in the open air, leaping right through Hachigen’s barrier and landing on the edge of the building across from the warehouse. He keeps going, aiming for the nearest patch of forest, alive with nature and no trace of the Charter except for the bells he’s carrying.

When Shūhei hits the deepest patch of grass he can find, he doesn’t even try to hold himself back. He drops the bandolier to the ground and stumbles back, spine thumping into a tree trunk before he slides down to sit, muttering curses at Unohana, at Astarael, at the Abhorsen and the Seven Bright Shiners and the whole world in general. He’s the servant of the Abhorsen, not one of them. Not anything close. He’s a creature of Free Magic, like Ferenks or Hrules, has no attachment to the Charter except being bound by it. And now Unohana is giving him the Abhorsen’s bells and warning him that the Dead are going to rise? There's only one thing she could possibly want, and Shūhei _hates_ her for it.

There's a soft thump of feet landing to the side, a pause, and then a rough sigh. Half a moment later Kensei flops down next to Shūhei, resting an arm on one upraised knee.

“You look like Hachi handed you a death sentence,” he says bluntly.

Shūhei closes his eyes, as if not looking at the bells will make them disappear. “That _sorcerer_ thinks she can manipulate me into something,” he says.

Kensei makes a sound of amusement. “Is it going to work?” he asks.

Once, a very long time ago, Yrael ran from the Seven, hid himself away rather than have to stand against his friend Orannis. Once, he chose to stand with those representing the Seven, and they bound Orannis a second time. Once, he was too late to do anything, and had to watch a whole kingdom be banished into Death and through the Nine Gates when there was no other way to stop Orannis.

He never chose the Charter, because he’s always been a creature of Free Magic. But—

The others were, too, once, weren’t they?

Here and now, there's no Charter. Only the marks left over from previous castings, relics of a dead world. But the Charter was made, forged out of the chaos and Death of Free Magic. Reason and logic out of madness and freedom. But…not a complete loss, or the Seven would never have lived on, being as they were.

The Dead are going to rise again. Free Magic is spreading. Maybe, with boundaries, with just a _bit_ of guidance—

Well. Shūhei’s grown used to being Shūhei, to his place in the Gotei 13, to his search for the Wallmakers and the Abhorsen and the royal line. He doesn’t want to lose what he’s made for himself, and he’s always been a selfish creature. This is just—making sure he doesn’t, even if it’s not something he would have considered before. He’s a creature of whims, after all. That’s all this is.

“Yeah,” he says tiredly, and rubs his hands over his face. “It probably will.”

Callused fingers catch his chin, tip his face to the side, and Shūhei is too startled to pull away. He blinks, but Kensei is looking at the 69 tattooed on his cheek, one corner of his mouth tipped up in amusement.

“There are subtler ways to make a statement, kid,” he says dryly.

Shūhei splutters, caught entirely off guard. He jerks away from the touch, heat in his cheeks, and says, “It’s because of that—that night!”

Kensei snorts, unmoving, and just raises his pierced brow at Shūhei. “I remember,” he says. “You stopped crying at everything yet?”

There's no good way to answer that, because saying _I reacted like that because I had a child’s brain and couldn’t control myself_ will raise too many questions. Instead, Shūhei pushes away from the tree and gets to his feet, leaning down to pick the bandolier up out of the grass. He weighs it in his hand for a moment, then sighs and buckles it across his chest. He’ll give it to the next Abhorsen, once they’re trained, but until then, he might as well keep it where he can see it.

“Hey,” Kensei says gruffly, pushing upright and taking a step to put himself right in front of Shūhei. His gaze is sharp but nowhere close to hostile. “You can say no, even if she’s a captain. You know that, right?”

That brusque kindness hasn’t changed at all, Shūhei thinks, and can't help but smile a little. “I can't,” he says, because it’s true enough. This isn't Unohana in her position as a captain; this is Clariel, the lost Abhorsen, formerly Chlorr of the Mask, who wants him to take up a burden that was never his and can't be hers. “But…” He looks down at the bandolier, runs his fingers over the smooth handles. “Maybe I shouldn’t anyway.”

Kensei stares at him for a long moment, then huffs. He drops a hand on top of Shūhei’s hair and shoves his head down, making Shūhei squawk in offense. Over the sound, he says, “You’ve got that stupid self-sacrificing kind of personality, don’t you? Shit. And here I was hoping you’d grown up well.”

“I _did_ ,” Shūhei protests, ducking away.

There's a pause, and then Kensei snorts. “You did, didn’t you,” he says, and it’s not a question. He turns, tucking his hands into his pockets, and says without looking back, “If you need an ear, you know where to find us.”

 _Find me_ , he means, but Shūhei doesn’t call him on it. There's something in his throat that feels like Sabriel with Belgaer in her hand, giving him the freedom of a choice. “Thank you,” he says, and means it.

Kensei waves one dismissive hand over his shoulder before he’s gone in a flicker of flash-step, leaving Shūhei alone in the grassy forest with the sense of Free Magic all around him and Charter magic burning against his chest.

Shūhei looks around the little clearing, then sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Too much, too heavy, too complicated, he thinks with irritation. But—

Frost crackles around his feet, gathers on his lashes and in his hair. His breath emerges in a gust of white, and the river’s current drags him forward a step. Shūhei lets it, turns his back on Life and keeps walking into Death. And, on the other side of the Ninth Gate, he steps out into a clearing very much like the one he just left, peaceful and empty. There's a stone half-buried in the roots of a tree just past the edge of the grass, and Shūhei makes for it, crouches down in front of it and pulls the layer of moss off its surface.

He’s not one of the Seven, but he is one of the Nine.

Leaning forward, he opens his mouth, lets out a breath that shimmers with power like a heat wave. Thinks of Life, of bindings, of order and form drawn out of the formless. Hums, low and full of magic, and it vibrates through the air like one of Astarael’s chimes.

The stone cracks, lines racing out from a central point and then branching out. Gold follows like Shūhei poured it into the cracks, swirls through the mark and then connects to itself, and there's a beat of perfect, breathless stillness, like the whole world ceased to turn for just an instant. Then, like ripples spreading out through the air, the mark reaches out, and in its wake Free Magic goes quiet. Not dead, not vanished. Just—constrained, a little bit. Eased.

The world doesn’t need the Dead rising, so close to Aizen’s war.

Shūhei sits back, watching the mark glow. There's a shimmer underneath the golden light, like its lines are fragmenting, breaking into smaller lines, and he smiles. Opens one of the bells’ holders, and draws Saraneth.

The sound is the lowest of all the bells, even though Astarael is larger. Deep and clear and sweet, and when Shūhei rings it, it washes out through a world that’s never heard it before. The shimmering threads of Free Magic twist, gathering towards it, and the rough Charter mark catches them, twists them into neat braids and lines and curls, binds them to itself. Not wide-reaching, of course, but it’s a small stone, a small area effected. Shūhei will watch this place for a while and see what happens, and if it’s good, he can always make another Charter Stone.

Yrael’s part in this grand play was always the servant, the bound, not quite an enemy but very close. Maybe this time the story will unfold differently.

Shūhei has been alive long enough, has changed sufficiently to hope it will.


End file.
